Reticulated
by syntheticaesthetic
Summary: Marble Hornets. It had been optimistic to think that it was all behind him now. Foolishly, stupidly, optimistic. He should have known that he'd never truly be free. Maybe he really should have done what Alex said, because now its all happening again, and he's losing control and this thing is so much bigger than he had ever realized. Tim Wright, post entry 83, later chapters graphic


The smoke from his cigarette drifts to the ceiling lazily, joining what's left of the steam from his too bitter coffee. He's somewhere in Louisiana he thinks, looking outside the window at the row of small shops bathed in early morning light opposite him. He's not entirely sure how he got here, or why. All he knows is that he's been driving since June, with no purpose and no particular destination in mind.

Its October now.

Adjusting the long sleeve of his shirt, Tim barely notices the chill that fall has brought with it, even down here in what's probably known locally as "the bayou" or something. He's not sure - he doesn't know anything about Louisiana. He wouldn't be able to tell a crocodile from an alligator or a swamp boat from a pirogue. Tim's never even been on a lake, let alone in a swamp. He's seen them - lakes - recently even, he supposes. He's taken his time in his travels lately, no longer in a rush to get from A to B. The stakes aren't dire anymore. He isn't running for his life.

Its been a little over five months, and truthfully he hasn't gotten far. He's only two states over from where he started, which by rights really should have only taken him a couple of days at his old pace. But its different now. He doesn't drive for nearly the same amount of hours in a day. When he stops somewhere he stays for a couple of days; a couple of weeks. It doesn't matter. He's not really exploring - there's an intent inherent in that. No, its more like he's just…wandering. A landmark here, a lake there, a scenic route in that area…Nothing stops Tim from seeing and experiencing anything he wants, but he takes no pleasure in it, and certainly doesn't set out with a goal in mind each day.

Sometimes he works. He skims through discarded newspapers looking for short-term odd jobs; takes them if he feels so inclined. Some lawn-mowing here, some help moving there. Brainless stuff, mostly. Things he doesn't have to be tied down to take. Jobs where people don't even need to know his name, really. Just exchange the cash in return for services and bid a good day! It's worked decently well so far. Its not like he spends too much these days. There's no camera upkeep and no tapes to buy. He's got to pay for gas to keep the car running. He tends to get a hotel for more extended stays in some places, but he can occasionally skimp and just sleep in the backseat if he feels no need to linger more than a night. Wi-fi tends to be free at the hotels, and Jay's computer works just fine enough to get him connected to whatever's happening on the internet these days.

_somedayshecan'tstophimselffromcheckingthechannelfromwatchingitfromseeingjayfromseeingbrianfromseeingalex_

He reaches for his coffee and takes a giant gulp. It's gone cold.

As if on cue the waitress approaches. She gives him a shy smile as she gestures at the coffee pot she holds and then to his mug. He slides it her way.

"Can I get you anything else?" Her accent is different - nothing like he's ever heard before and certainly not like the rest of the people in this town. He shakes his head at her.

"No, thanks," he tells her hoarsely.

She hesitates. "Need me to empty that?"

"Sorry?"

"The ashtray? Looks full."

Tim looks down at it - its really not all that full, and he wonders if she's just bored and needs something to do. He's been the only customer in this diner since they opened this morning. "Up to you," he tells her, leaning back to give her access if she so chooses.

She does, taking it through a back door, and leaving him alone again.

Toying with the corner of a small laminated pie menu, he wonders how much it would cost to wrestle an alligator or to go catfishing. That was a thing in these parts, right? Either way, he's not quite ready to move on from this sleepy little town just yet. New Orleans is probably only an hour or two's drive away, but the big city doesn't appeal to him at the moment.

Not that anything really _does _appeal to him these days.

His phone vibrates in his pocket. Surprised he fishes it out with one hand, nearly dropping it in his coffee.

_Hey how r u? Where r u? Safe? Pills still working, but make me really tired. Same 4 u?_

Jessica. Again.

He feels slightly guilty every time she texts him. For the first two months after he left her in that parking lot, he refused to answer any of her worried texts. As time went on she became increasingly persistent. Once, he had texted her back telling her to stop. She texted eight more times in the hour after that to spite him. At around month three, he'd received a text that had made his blood cold.

_Jay didn't move, did he?_

It had left him paralyzed. Even if he had wanted to respond to her, he wouldn't know what to say. He had lied, just as he always had, and he'd been caught just like he'd always been caught.

_Tim, I found the videos. I saw everything._

That one drove him to shakily reach for his pills and down two of them in sheer distress.

_Are you okay, Tim?_

A part of him wanted to tell her, that no, no he was not okay, he was alone, and scared, and unsure of whether he had done the right thing or not, of whether Alex was right or not, of whether or not he'd ever be "okay" again.

_I'm fine, Jessica. Everything is fine._

Her response was the first thing to draw a noise of amusement from him in months.

_Yeah, sure whatever, buddy. Keep telling yourself that. _

And then: _Let me know if ur not. I can help. I want to help. _He imagined her taking a shaky breath as she typed, worried about becoming involved, but unable with her moral sensibilities to leave him out in the cold.

_Let me know where u are and if ur safe once in a while. I'm worried about u. Maybe one day we'll talk about it. I have a lot of ?s._

Every couple of weeks Jessica texts him, checking up on him, and every couple of weeks Tim responds with the same thing: Still fine. Still traveling. Sometimes he sends her pictures from his phone, showing her where he is standing at that exact moment. She seems to like that. Other times she asks him questions about the medications she's been put on, asking if he'd ever had it and how it had been for him. Eventually, he realized that he was happy to answer her questions - these ones anyway.

_theeasyonesthesimpleonestheonesthatwon'thurtherputherinharmswaymakejaysdeathnull_

Its about the only useful thing he can do these days, and he wonders how much his own experience would have been different if he'd had someone to talk to when he was in her position. Truthfully, he kind of likes it when she texts him - he feels a little less lonely every time his phone vibrates.

He still has to be careful though. He can't get _too_ close to her. Just in case.

His groggy thumbs begin a reply. _Still fine. Some diner somewhere. Safe. Sorry about pills - same ones? If so: normal. Try lemon juice in water for more energy._

He imagines her reaction as she reads his response - he predicts the phrase "not helpful" will come into play.

Instead he receives: _That's nasty, Tim. Ew._

The waitress returns with the ashtray and sets it down just as he lets out a soft snort, shaking his head. She lifts her eyebrows at him. "Let me guess, your girlfriend is teasing you?"

Unconsciously his hand goes to the back of his neck. "Uh, no."

"Ah. Boyfriend teasing you?"

"Again, no."

"Significant other of any sort of humanoid affiliation?"

"What?"

"Nevermind. I'm just being nosy. Sorry." She scrunches up her nose in a sort of way that suggests merriment. "I was just beginning to worry about you. I hadn't seen you make any sort of facial expression all morning. Glad to see you can laugh." She turns and moves away to the swinging door and the back room before he can respond.

The phone vibrates again. _Seriously tho, where r u? Take a pic. _

_ Nothing to take a picture of Jessica._

_ …Ur at a whore house aren't u? In the am? Tim u should be ashamed of urself! _

_ Not at a whorehouse, Jess._

_ Then where?_

_ Louisiana. _

_ House of the Rising Sun! Ur at a whorehouse Tim!_

_ Wasn't aware the whole state was a whorehouse. my bad._

_ PICS._

Tim sighs but lines up the camera on his phone to catch the small bar across from his booth. He tries to be artistic and get his mug of coffee into the forefront of the shot, but he doesn't know how successful he is. He hits the shutter button just as the door from the back opens and the waitress steps back through, arching her eyebrows at him again.

"You know you have to pay extra for that right?" she teases him, tilting her head and placing a hand on her hip.

"Guess I'll need a tab then."

He relines up the photo - sans waitress - and sends it to Jessica before pulling out a few bills to leave on the table (plus a decent tip), downing the rest of his coffee, stubbing out his cigarette, and leaving.

He doesn't have any grand plans for his day. He wanders up and down the short streets but it doesn't take him but a couple of hours to wander in and out of the shops. There's not much around. He's not landed himself in the average tourist spot, that much is obvious. He was lucky there was a small hotel at all, and a cheap one too. He wouldn't have been able to stand another night in the cramped car.

It's a fishing town, an old one. The population seems small - one of those places where everyone knows everyone else and outsiders are easy to spot. He probably shouldn't stay too long, since he doesn't have any real business here and no family to speak of. Early on in his travels he used to make up reasons for his traveling - books he's writing, research he's conducting, relatives to visit. The appeal faded after some time, but his lack of a cover story makes people nervous.

He wanders down to the pier (he thinks its called a pier) and lights another cigarette as he looks out into the water. He's not sure if its the ocean or not. Two older and work-hardened men lift crates of fish and other sea-borne foods off of small boats and onto the dock. A woman is stationed not too far away, gutting the fish as her dog thumps its tail upon the ground beside her, hoping for something stray to go its way. Tim isn't sure how long he stays there, leaning against a wall and chain-smoking as he watches them.

Later in the day he finds himself browsing through the local grocery, taking his time as he selects a few snacks to get him through the night. He contemplates a proper dinner for a moment before grabbing something microwavable instead. The evening finds him sat upon his hotel bed (he books rooms with only one bed now), with the lights off and the tv on. Every so often he pushes a button on the remote that changes the channel, but after a while it all blurs together and he doesn't really care what he watches anyway.

He's asleep before the sun even sets. He tosses and turns all night, but doesn't wake until sun up.

Showered, dressed, and hungry, Tim contemplates his options. There seem to be two places to eat in this town - three if one counts the bar, four if one counts the grocery. He usually doesn't eat at the same place twice as a general rule, but something about the diner calls him back. It's busier today - there's a whole three other customers this morning, sat at the bar and digging into an early morning pint of _something_ to go with their steak and eggs. Tim slides into the booth he sat at yesterday, and lights his second cigarette of the morning as the redheaded waitress from yesterday approaches, his coffee already in hand.

She looks slightly harried as she shoots him a small but genuine smile as he spares her a mumbled "Morning."

The guys at the bar are a slightly _mirthful _bunch, but they don't bother him. He's content with his hot, bitter coffee and his cheap cigarette and the soft clanking of dishes from the kitchen. He swipes a copy of the sunday paper from the next table over, before slumping in his seat slightly as he peruses the local news.

He's reading about Catfish Joe's retirement from his 35 years of piloting a swamp boat when obnoxious finger-snapping reaches his ears.

"Hey, Red!"

One of the men at the bar is staring at the door to the back room, as if looking at it will summon the waitress back. He mumbles something to his companions before shouting again. The third and fourth time he does it, his face becomes progressively red. When the waitress returns, Tim wonders what to call a color that is equal parts red and purple.

"Look, Freckles, when I call for you, I expect you to jump."

The look on her face suggests that she wants to mockingly ask him "How high?" but Tim has to commend her for her restraint. Instead she settles for a polite "What can I do for you?" as she manages to put on a sweet smile.

"What you can do, is get my goddamn order right!"

"I'm sorry?"

"You fucked it up, girl. I said I wanted my eggs on the runny side.'"

"I told Lafayette to do them sunny side. He didn't?"

A hand shoots out to grab her arm, making her flinch. "RUNNY SIDE. I said fucking runny side. R-U-N-N-Y. Are you stupid or something?"

She blinks at him, attempting to keep her composure. "Sorry, I must have misheard you. I'll take it back and have him do it right…"

"Don't bother." The man stands, and his companion follow him out the door. Without paying. The waitress stares after them for a brief moment before sighing and beginning to clear up the dishes, mumbling under her breath. Tim winces in sympathy. Its too early in the morning for anyone to be dealing with drama queens of that caliber.

"Some people, huh?" He says it before he can stop himself. She turns to him, brows raised.

"Sorry?"

Tim turns to face her, committed to the conversation now. "Oh, I just said 'some people huh?'"

She nods solemnly. "Yeah. Those guys in particular. He knows he can just throw a fuss and usually get what he wants. No one can really do a thing about it, except just let him run out of steam. Still, I just wish he wouldn't take it out on me." She nods to the half-eaten food. "That'll come out of my paycheck. Despite rumors to the contrary, I do enjoy making enough money to you know, live, and stuff." She tosses a stray napkin up into the air so that it can sail its way to the trashcan. _Three points. _ "Its not my fault I can't tell what he's saying with that stupid beard."

Tim involuntarily cocks his head to the side, inviting her to ease his confusion despite himself. "Oh, right. I'm Deaf. Partially deaf anyway." She pulls her hair to the side and bends the top of her ear to reveal her hearing aid to him. "I need to be able to see people's mouths as they talk so I can try to make sure I'm hearing it right. But…beardy over there…well it makes it ten times more difficult, not to mention he slurs something awful when he's drinking."

Tim nods in what he hopes is an understanding manner as he reaches for his pack and his lighter, fumbling with it as he attempts to get it lit. She throws him a look as she disappears with the dishes. It looks like its going to be one of those mornings for him too, if he can't get his damn lighter to work. He's about to give it up and put the cigarette back into the pack when she returns with a cheap green zippo in hand and passes it wordlessly to him. Gratefully he holds it to the end of his precious nicotine recepticle and lights it, giving her a toast as he attempts to hand it back.

She waves him off. "Keep it. I've got like a thousand of them."

"Thanks." He hesitates for a moment, before pulling another cigarette out of the pack and offering it to her, gesturing to the seat across from him. _Fuck it. I can have a conversation with a human being for once. It won't kill us. Probably._

_ whendidhegetsobold?whendidhegetsolonely?jessicahasn'ttextedtodayjayhasn't—_

She glances around, before deciding to join him. Tim's never been friends with another smoker, so it fascinates him as she lights up herself (borrowing the lighter previously in his slightly nervous hand), inhaling deeply the same way he does when he's been deprived for too long.

"So… deaf huh?" he asks, his own lips wrapped around the stick that will hopefully shorten his lifespan.

_ifhetalkshismindcan'trace_

She furrows her brow at him, gesturing to her own lips. "Wha- oh, right. Sorry." He removes the offending item before repeating himself.

"Yeah. Both ears to a degree, but my left ear is worse than my right by far. I have some residual hearing, so the aid works well enough. It makes things louder at least, even if it doesn't help my brain translate it into speech. But there are lots of factors that can make it harder, you know? Things in people's mouths like food or gum or cigarettes; stuff covering their mouths like mustaches, beards or hands; or just plain old not facing me when they talk. I prefer sign language, but would you believe me when I say most people don't know it?"

"Imagine that…" Tim offers mildly, a small grin forming despite himself. He takes a slow drag and exhales, resisting the urge to close his eyes and drop off to sleep while the smoke fills his lungs. Instead he asks, "So, being a waitress was at the top of the list of career options? I mean, its a lot of…you know, talking. And listening."

She snorts, a decidedly un-lady-like sound that lifts a corner of his mouth slightly. "I know, right? There's like so many options around here."

"Why do you stay?"

"Habit. Lack of any other better ideas."

Tim doesn't have any response. He's basically living the nomadic version of that answer.

They sit in silence for a few moments, watching the separate streams of smoke entwine and reticulate gently. Tim tries not to notice the little details, like how her brow furrows as she thinks, or the color of her nail polish, or the shape of the spattering of freckles on her face. He doesn't want to know what her favorite tv show is, he doesn't want to know how being deaf affects the way she interacts with the world, or if she prefers halibut or cod. Tim doesn't want to be friends. He doesn't want to get involved.

_he'sjustsodamnlonelysometimessolonelythathischestphysicallyachessomuchhethinkshe'shavingaheartattack_

He's glad she doesn't press him for conversation. He's glad she doesn't ask him where he's from or what he does because he has no answers -

_heneverhastheanswersoratleastneverhastherightanswersshutupstopittimdon'tthinkdon'tgetinvolvedjustleaveherbe _

They both jump when the door opens, and she hastily stubs out her cigarette and jumps to her feet, sparing him a quick glance as she seats the new customer, sets out a menu, and grabs a refreshing ice cold water.

Tim is gone by the time she sets it down on the table, the only trace of him left his payment for the coffee and the still warm cigarette sitting in the ashtray next to hers.


End file.
